


Deductions

by elldotsee



Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anniversary, Casefic on location, Domesticity, Established Relationship, John loves his genius, M/M, Parentlock, THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO DAMN MUCH, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25624672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: A series of deductions leads Sherlock on a wild chase
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807645
Comments: 26
Kudos: 58
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	Deductions

“Boys!” Mrs Hudson huffed up the stairs, her floral dress tangling about her knees as she stuck her head in the sitting room. John glanced behind him from his chair where he was attempting to coerce a wiggly Rosie into sitting still so he could tie up her hair. 

“Catherine Rose, sit _down_ , we are going to be _late_ if we don’t leave in the next four minutes. I’ll leave your hair just like this, so help me… Sherlock? _Sherlock!_ Maybe we could leave the mind palace spring cleaning for a few minutes and first get our daughter to school?” 

“Ow! Dad! Not so hard! You’re hurting me!”

“Boys! There’s someone at the door, did you not hear the bell? Honestly, in my age, I can’t be managing the stairs so many times, you really ought to install a louder bell if you can’t hear it over all this racket, you know it’s never for me. Anyone who calls on me does it properly, doesn’t just buzz that bell incessantly— oh _honestly,_ John, that’s a disaster. You mustn’t let her go to school like that, she’ll be teased! You go get the door, I’ll fix up Rosie’s hair.” 

“No, Sherlock will get the door, I have to scrounge up something for Rosie’s lunch. _Sherlock_! Ro, where’s your backpack?” 

“‘Ello? ‘ope it’s al'ight I let meself in. Only there was such a racket, didn’t think ya could ‘ear me. One of you is Sherlock ‘olmes? 

“Rosie! Put your shoes on! We’re going to be late! That berk over there is the one you want. The one with the headphones in, pretending he can’t hear his family and probably forgetting he even has one. Sherlock! We’re leaving! Goodbye!” 

“G’bye, Nana! Bye Daddy!” 

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. What can I do for you? Thanks Mrs Hudson, she looks much less like a ruffian now. Bye, Ro. Be good. Sorry, John, I really didn’t hear. You know how I get… sorry. Have a good day. Love you.” 

“Mister ‘olmes. I was told you could ‘elp me. I’ve no idea where to even begin if you can’t. You see, I live in a big ‘ouse. Renovated. Passed down through generations, like, but not my family. We only just acquired it, but then pa died all the sudden and left it to me and my brother. Other night, I couldn’t sleep, thought I’d go get a snack. Must’ve been one, two in the mornin’. But the kitchen’s out on th’other side, through all these corridors. I passed my brother’s room and ‘e usually goes to bed early, likes to get up early too, says it’s good for ‘is ‘eart. But ‘e weren’t in there. Lights were off, bed still made up. I turned a corner and there ‘e was, pacing the floor, talking to ‘isself. ‘e ‘ad a piece of paper, held it in two ‘ands, like this. I didn’t get no good look at it, but it looked like ‘ow a map is usually folded up, in those tiny impossible folds. I asked ‘im, I asked ‘Nathan, what’re you doin’ out ‘ere, walking’n talking?’ I thought maybe ‘e was ‘aving one them sleepwalking spells. But ‘e acted all suspicious-like, jumping like I startled ‘im and running off without sayin’ a word to me. I forgot all ‘bout my snack and went off to ‘is room to see what ‘e was doin’, if ‘e maybe needed some ‘elp. But the door’d been locked. Next morn, didn’t say one word to me. Acting like nuffin ‘appened. But then I saw ‘im walking with that same paper on the grounds of the ‘ouse. Wouldn’t tell me nuffin, just ran away again when I tried to ask ‘im ‘bout it. It’s weird, innit, Mister ‘olmes? I think Nathan’s up to something, something _bad_ , but ‘e won’t tell me and I’m too afraid to go to the police. Don’t want nuffin to ‘appen to ‘im.”

Sherlock looked the man over as he finished talking. He was pacing the floor, nervously twisting his ratty hat between his hands. His fingernails were dirty — not dirty, _greasy._ Worked with his hands then. Mechanic of some sort. His hair was shaggy and even from halfway across the sitting room, Sherlock could smell the cigarette smoke that permeated his clothing. 

“Where’s the house? You said it was a family house. Where is it?” 

“Birmingham.” 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. 

“Don’t say? I grew up in an old home near Birmingham. Quite the sprawling place, from my recollection as well. Plenty of corridors for me to run in.” Sherlock patted the arms of his chairs as he pushed himself to his feet, ushering the man out onto the landing as he spoke. “Now, I must get on with my day, but leave your mobile number with me and I’ll let you know if I’ll take the case. Need to consult with my uh… assistant. If your brother does anything else interesting, like disappear, or find buried treasure with that mysterious map of his, let me know. Good morning.” 

* * *

“Fancy a road trip this weekend? Ro, eat your salad, too. Rolls are not a complete dinner.” 

“That’s plenty enough butter, young lady. Did you finish your homework earlier? A road trip? Where?”

“Birmingham.” 

“Not very exotic, that.” 

“Oooh! I want to go! Yes, Dad. I finished my homework. It was just maths. Boring. Can I have more milk?” 

“Yes. There’s a bit left in the fridge. Help yourself. What’s in Birmingham? A case?” 

“Mm-hmm. That bloke at the door this morning.” 

“Is it something worth driving all the way to Birmingham — oh for God’s sake. Grab the paper, Ro. Yes, I know it was an accident. But you should’ve asked for help if you couldn’t reach. It’s alright. Go finish your spaghetti. No more bread.” 

“Probably not worth it, no, but we’ve got nothing else on lately.” 

“True. Here’s your milk, Rosie. Now finish up and put your plate in the sink. Oh, this weekend? It’s our anniversary, Sherlock. I was thinking we could do… I dunno. Something to celebrate. Six years married, I mean, it isn’t ten, but I still thought — yes, you can go watch telly for a bit. Just one show and then you need a shower. Don’t forget your dishes!” 

“Oh, our anniversary, that's right…” 

“You forgot.” 

“No, I did not forget our anniversary, John. I just do not know what day it is _today._ Unimportant. Besides, what could be better than solving a crime for our anniversary?”

“I’ll think about it. See if we can get someone to watch Rosie for the weekend.” 

* * *

**_Stuck late at work. Had a call in. and Charlotte has strep throat._ **

Sent 16:51

**_Sorry, love_ **

Sent 16:51

**_Solve a crime for me_ **

Sent 16:51

**_Hope it’s a good one_ **

Sent 16:52

**_Requiring lots of clueing for looks. ;-)_ **

Sent 16:52

**_Don’t be cute, John. -SH_ **

Sent 16:53

**_Who’s Charlotte?? -SH_ **

Sent 16:53

**_Rosie’s friend from school, remember?_ **

Sent 16:54

**_She was going to sleepover there this weekend._ **

Sent 16:54

**_So you aren’t coming? -SH_ **

Sent 16:55

**_Sorry. Birmingham will have to do without me this time._ **

Sent 16:58

* * *

Sherlock slumped further down in his train seat. His jaw ached from where he had been subconsciously clenching it, and it was giving him a headache. He wished he’d stayed home. John had reassured him that he didn’t mind if Sherlock went without him. In fact, Sherlock thought sulkily, it seemed almost as though John was pushing him out. And on their anniversary, too! Not that they’d ever been one for a big to-do and six years certainly wasn’t anything exciting in the grand scheme of things. But still.

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest, turning his head to stare out the window at the blurring buildings, seeing none of it. Not exactly a drive in the countryside, but even this would’ve been remarkably more fun with John by his side. When was the last time they took a case out of the city limits of London? Sherlock couldn’t recall. 

The train slowed to a stop shortly after, rousing Sherlock from his grumpy reverie. He collected his case, glaring at it. Maybe if he solved the case quickly enough, he could catch a late train back home. 

He pushed through the Friday evening crowd, dragging his suitcase behind him with one hand and scrolling his contact list on his phone with the other. Robert, his client, had given him his number and said to call when he arrived as he’d be waiting with a car to take them to the house. 

Robert picked up on the third ring, directing Sherlock to a beat up silver Nissan left idling outside the train station. He shoved Sherlock’s case in the backseat, and then slid into the driver’s side, navigating the rush hour traffic effortlessly. While he drove, he excitedly told Sherlock that earlier that day, he’d managed to sneak into his brother’s bedroom while he was in the shower and take a picture of the map he’d seen Nathan with earlier in the week. He also found some other papers — the original deed to the house, and what sounded like a list of instructions, in riddle form. Sherlock held out his hand, demanding to see the photos. He scrolled through rapidly before sending them to his own mobile. 

“Tell me about this house.” 

“It’s old. Four, five ‘undred years old. There was a fire in the east wing and the owner died. Old fella. ‘ouse got put in auction and pa got it. Kept it going by renting out rooms. But ‘e died and now my brother and me are trying to keep it afloat so it don’t go under. I’d ‘eard, back when pa was alive, through the people that came through, they talk, and they said that there’s supposedly something buried ‘ere. Said the old man never trusted a bank, never wanted to put his money nowhere, just have it with ‘im all the time. Story says he buried it on the property, but no one never found nuffin. I think that’s what Nathan’s been doing. ‘oping to find buried treasure, like a pirate or summat.” 

“And what is it, exactly, that you want me to do?”

“Work it out! Is that what Nathan’s doing? Or did ‘e get ‘isself mixed up in something darker ‘n more dangerous?” 

Sherlock gave a nod, watching out of the dirty window as a massive house came into view, completely out of place nestled among a residential tree-lined area that didn’t look nearly old enough to have a four hundred year old home in its midst. Robert drove right up to the circle drive, pulling out of the way of the main area. He motioned with his hand to the impressive front of the house — mansion, really. 

“‘ere’s the main part, where we rent out rooms for people. Nathan and me, we live in the back wing, so’s we’re not disrupting the guests. I’ll take you there.” 

He drove around the side of the house, following a narrowing road. This side of the house was clearly newer, rebuilt after the fire, though Sherlock could see that at the very bottom, the stone foundation was still intact. He shielded his eyes against the late afternoon sun as it burst over the roof. Robert unlocked a door, using a key from a large keyring. On it, Sherlock could see a variety of old skeleton keys as well, which he inquired about. 

“For the guest rooms. All original doors. Pa thought the old keys added a bit of extra charm. I ‘ave to go see to the front desk. You can work in ‘ere and I’ll come check on you in a bit. You’ve got the pictures. Feel free to move around the grounds if you need.”

With that, he was gone, leaving Sherlock standing in a sparsely furnished room. There was a plain wooden rolltop desk in one corner, and a pair of mismatched easy chairs in the other. A lamp wobbled precariously next to a bookshelf stuffed overfull with books. Sherlock went to the bookshelf first, running a finger over the shelf at eye height. His finger came away with a layer of dust. 

“Not big readers, then.” He said, to no one in particular and missing John with a sudden ache. He flicked on the lamp, settled into one of the chairs, and pulled out his phone, flicking through the pictures. His lips moved as he read the riddle to himself and then, moving to the desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, flipping to the map picture as he sketched out a rough layout of the estate. 

“Pfft. Easy. Child’s play. Saw it all along.” 

Without bothering to turn off the lamp again, Sherlock collected the paper and made for the outside once more. The sun had dipped below the level of the house and the back of the grounds were growing dark and cooler in the early evening. Sherlock flipped his collar out and walked toward the back of the garden, where he could see a towering oak. The riddle referred to this old beauty as a starting place. Once there, he turned in a circle, then paced out steps, counting aloud. 

“No… it would be…” He turned, shielding his eyes and squinting, then retracing his steps. “The oak… hmmm. But if the sun was… if it was June, then… aha!” 

After only an hour or so, Sherlock was confident that he had solved the riddle and found the right spot. He crouched down in the dirt, pulling out his magnifier. A worm slithered away, tucking itself under a nearby rock. “...and under we… _go!”_ Sherlock muttered to himself as he poked his fingers into the dirt, sifting it through his fingers. It had clearly been disturbed recently, even though there wasn’t anything new planted in this area. He dug his hands into the cool, black soil, scooping up handfuls and tossing them to the side, carelessly forgetting about the expense of his trousers and Italian leather shoes. After only a few minutes, his fingernails clanked against something hard. Brushing the dirt aside, he widened the hole, discovering a small, black box. 

“Awfully small for a life savings…” 

With his pocket knife, he pried open the lid, and was mildly amused to see that its contents included only a single key. Tied to the key with fraying ribbon was a tag printed with the number four. Sherlock pulled the key from the box, tucking it into his pocket and replacing the dirt in the hole he’d made. 

He stood, brushing debris from his trouser legs and wondering idly where Robert had gotten off to. It had been hours since he’d seen the man. A sudden thought stopped him in his tracks. What if Nathan had solved the riddle already and had planted the key in the box? The key matched the ones Sherlock had seen on Robert's key ring, the ones to the guest rooms. Sherlock took off at a run, a sudden burst of adrenaline pumping in his veins. Nathan could be waiting in the room now for his brother, perhaps even armed. Sherlock hesitated, though his steps never slowed. Maybe he should call John. He could practically hear John’s voice in his head, scolding him that charging into a strange building, armed only with a skeleton key and a dangly numbered keychain was the height of stupidity. As he ran, he swivelled his head, looking for any signs of Nathan or Robert. But the grounds were quiet, dusk settling over everything with a hushed reverence. Past the house, traffic whizzed by; people headed out to enjoy their Friday evening. Sherlock shivered as he pulled open a side door, relieved that it was unlocked. It was warm inside the house, the smells of cooking inviting. Sherlock poked his head around the door, realising he had walked into the back of the kitchen. The staff were busy preparing meals for the guests and paid him no mind. 

“‘Scuse me. Robert or Nathan? Have you seen either one?” He asked a short woman with dark, curly hair tucked under a hair net. She shook her head, eyeing his suit and leather oxfords with some disdain before hurrying off, a tea towel slung over her shoulder. 

Sherlock made his way through the kitchen and out into a much quieter, carpeted corridor. He closed his eyes, picturing the layout of the exterior of the house. Two storeys, staircases likely on either side, or perhaps a grand staircase in the middle. Dining room, or perhaps two, if they converted a previous parlour into one. Most likely, the guest rooms would all be upstairs, so Sherlock headed to the centre of the main part of the building. He passed several other people, though none of them yielded any clues as to the whereabouts of either of the men in question. He allowed a small sigh of relief. Surely a gunshot or other form of violence would have elicited some panic in the guests and staff — someone would have heard a scream, at the very least. 

Ok, good. Sherlock lengthened his steps as he hurried to the front entryway and up the elaborate grand staircase, warring with the idea of shouting for Robert. In the end, he decided not to, hoping to have the element of surprise on his side if Nathan really was waiting in the room for him. 

It didn’t take long for him to find room number four, and the key fitted easily in the lock. Sherlock held his breath and pushed open the door. 

The door swung inwardly, and the room was exactly as Sherlock expected: a four-poster bed with an expensive looking brocade quilt and a ridiculous number of pillows took up the majority of the floor space. There was an antique — probably actually antique, rather than some reproduction — desk beneath the window, and to his right — 

His brain stuttered to a stop at the sight in front of him as he turned. To his right was a small elegant table with carved legs and wood so shiny Sherlock thought he could probably see himself in it. It was flanked on either side with matching upholstered chairs in a tasteful gold fabric. Seated in the chair closest to him, Sherlock recognised the overlong neck hair and battered cap of Robert and across from him...

“John?! But… Rosie? I thought… the sleepover… and you had to work late. What are you doing here?? Did you— are you?” His head swivelled from his husband, who was now looking ridiculously smug, to Robert, who was trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin. Robert stood and bowed his way quickly out of the room with a wink. 

“Thanks Robert! You were great.” John waved as he closed the door behind a befuddled and blinking Sherlock. The final deduction clicked into place as Sherlock continued to gape at a bemused John.

“ _John._ Did you _plan this_? This whole— all of this? With the map… and the riddle and this house? How did you even…?” 

John nodded, his eyes twinkling with mischief. 

“I had some help, but yeah. Happy anniversary. You solved that impressively quickly. Always knew you were a genius. Others tried to tell me otherwise, but I always said, oh no, you must be talking about a different Sherlock, because mine is a damn ge—mmm! Well. Hello. I think I deserved that for all the hard work I put into this! Hello husband.” 

“Hello, John. _John_. Oh, _John_. You’re marvelous. You made me a mystery for our anniversary!” Sherlock’s throat felt suspiciously tight at this revelation. He clapped gleefully to distract from the sensation. 

“Liked it?” 

“Loved it. Love _you._ Now come here. That bed looks awfully inviting, and I did all that clueing for looks... I know you love it when I’m brilliant.” 

“Mmm… indeed I do. Love you too.” 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This story was loosely based on The Musgrave Ritual story by ACD, a favourite of mine.


End file.
